


Self Disatisfaction

by Hambone



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Misery, Sexual Fantasy, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1592675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was only one thing he hated more than Shockwave, and that was what Shockwave had done to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self Disatisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by Anonymous on my Tumblr. I had a lot of fun writing this! Thanks for the prompt!

Over time, the city healed. Many of its occupants went about their cycle-to-cycle lives with no idea that they were entangled in the process of recovery, but they were. A season of peace greater than the last few centuries had fallen, almost overnight, onto the metallic towers and the streets below them, the seeds of discontent and fear that had been sewn for the last eight hundred solar cycles withering away beneath their feet, and no one noticed.

Except Blurr.

The Elite Guard was well aware of Shockwave’s activates, now that his remaining files had been seized. For whatever reason, he had chosen to destroy very little of his work when he departed from their company, leaving his logs and videos in their willing care, to sift over for vorns after his leaving, searching with mellow worry for any sign of further meddling. There was none, of course. The spy had been careful to remove his claws from ever fire they’d been warming in during his time disguised.

Though the investigation had been closed by the time Blurr had recovered, he requested access to the information. Cliffjumper had complied with his wishes, in the way the nurses and the councilors and his fellow agents all had; sad and soft, hoping he wouldn’t notice their delicate words and sympathetic stares. He did notice, of course – how could he not when it was so painfully obvious – but he feigned obliviousness, for their sake as well as his own. He accepted the kindness with quiet dignity and took the files off to his flat to study on his own time, and everyone sighed sorrowfully at his retreating back as though he were walking off to his own execution. He may as well have been.

As expected, his work over on the files revealed no new information, nothing that could further the cause in any real way. There was little there outside his callous reports on his Autobot ‘peers’, information regarding the Guard itself that was already well known within the walls of Fortress Maximus. There were video logs, likely left out of spite, displaying various clips of amassed footage regarding the less than appropriate behaviors of the higher Guard members and Primes. Other footage, too, of his own crimes. Murders, mostly, gruesome and horrific as they come. By the time Blurr got his hands on them, they were already heavily censored, but he still had to pause between each file, sickened.

He turned the files back in, after a few weeks, turned over so many times he had each sound byte memorized, each video clip recorded onto his own hard drives. Cliffjumper put a kind hand on his shoulder and asked if he wanted more time off. He didn’t. There was nothing more to think about. His injuries were, for better or for worse, fully repaired. Shockwave’s dystopian campaign was ended.

Only too late. He had left his mark.

Blurr collapsed into his berth, helm in his hands. It had been a tough cycle. As they all had been, for a long, long time.

Yet, recharge wouldn’t come. He knew it wouldn’t, expected it. Perceptor had informed him that reintegration into his new body would be difficult, would probably have side effects such as insomnia. He knew it wasn’t that, though. He knew what he needed.

Rolling onto his side, Blurr let out a hefty sigh, dragging his hands down away from his face to his neck. Slowly as he could, he caressed himself there. The cables, taught with tension, softened under his touch. Moving one servo lower, he drew a light line across his chest, feeling the trembling pulse from his spark fluctuate up through his magnetic field.

The polyglass of his windshield was cold from the night air, but already the metal beside it began to warm, pinging as his engine purred awake. His thighs were crossed, shifting nervously, and he finally allowed himself to push them down against the berth pad, biting his lip with a whine.

Longarm Prime had had a gentle touch. He and Blurr had never been lovers, of course, but they had multiple friendly interactions. Blurr felt he could at least confidently refer to his former boss as an acquaintance, not simply a superior. They had spoken at the company parties, sat together at lunch a few times. Nothing intimate, but it was nice all the same.

Blurr had wanted more. His stuttering speech and nervous twitching was so normalized for everyone else that it was hardly noticeable, but he was fully, painfully aware of how intensified Longarm’s presence made it. Their hands would brush as Blurr passed him a file, and he would be supplied with vorns of self-stimulation material. It was embarrassing how bad he had it, and the only consolation he could find was that no one else was aware of his crush.

Particularly so now, when his true identity had been revealed. Blurr wished he could say the thought stilled his hands, but it didn’t. A brief memory clip flashed through his visual feed, Shockwave rearing his helm as he transformed in Blurr’s peripheral vision, and he gasped loudly, fingers tightening around his throat. A bolt of heat shot through his core, straight from his spark to his interface paneling, and he pushed his head back, panting open mouthed.

“No, no, no…” he muttered, brow creased with consternation, “not this time.”

The fingers on his chest dug into a seam and he went with that, focusing hard on the sensation alone. The hand on his throat withdrew, moving to rub enticingly along his thigh.

Now there was a thought. The solstice party, sixty three stellar cycles ago. Rodimus had gotten very overcharged, gone home with three bots from the cataloguing department. Before that, though, he had been with Blurr. Not in interface, that is, but he had certainly been trying for it. Blurr was alone because Longarm had - Blurr was alone, and Rodimus found him.

He slunk up to the intelligence agent, fingers hot and tingling, rubbed one coolly down his shoulder, taken him by the waist. Blurr, lonely and sober as they come, was standing out by the window, pretending he wasn’t watching Longarm converse with that gruff little secretary in the reflections on the glass – was standing by the window, waiting for the party to end so he could go home alone, had been surprised by the touch. Rodimus had always liked him but not enough to show real interest. Rodimus liked everybody. Blurr would never have guessed.

Then he’d gotten a little too fresh, dragged a hand up Blurr’s inner thigh, and action he imitated now, breathing hot down his neck. Blurr pushed him away. He went home early. Heard the gossip the next day about Rodimus’s exploits. Whether or not he remembered his invitation to Blurr remained a mystery. He didn’t care to know.

But he’d liked it. The attention, perhaps. The distraction.

He tried to envision Rodimus, now, leaning over him, smiling, cocky. There was a difference between knowing one’s own abilities and being overly confident, and Rodimus walked the line with an infuriating grace. He was attractive. Blurr knew that objectively. The other bots in his office would probably kill for a night with him, Rodimus Prime, newly christened war hero. He focused on that, on the promise of stability, intimacy, fun.

The hand on his thigh slid up to rub at his codpiece, and he burned for something stronger. Hips bucking up into his own touch, Blurr saw red.

There was much documentation on Shockwave outside the classified files, but none of it was particularly thorough. Conjecture, superstition. He’d barely been seen since the end of the Third Great War. There were pictures, dark and grainy, of him standing faithfully by Megatron’s side. His hands, his claws alone, were enormous, unusually so. Blurr should know; one had almost come down on his head. Admittedly, that was under the guise of Longarm, his beloved Prime, but-

Blurr moaned loudly now, full throated and needy. That shouldn’t make him hot, he had almost died and Shockwave was a murderer, a Decepticon.

“Oh, Primus, Sh-Shock-!” but it did.

His spark sank, but his panel clicked open. The hand on his thigh swept upwards, palming roughly over his valve before meeting the base of his fully pressurized spike. He smeared his own lubricants over the shaft, choking back one cry only to release another as he pushed the first finger of his other hand into his valve. There was no time for pleasantries; if he waited too long, he’d realize what he was doing and the fantasy would be lost.

Now, though, Shockwave curved out of the darkness above him, tracing claws like cleavers up his spike, barely nosing between the folds of his valve. Just one would be at least as thick as a regular Autobot spike. Baring his teeth with a sort of feral rage, Blurr jammed two more fingers inside himself, reveling in the burn. After all, a Decepticon would never be so gentle.

The sleekness of his form, so similar to Longarm and yet so different, called to mind a million other fantasies born before the ugly truth was drawn out. They twisted and perverted in his hard drives, kind smiles and tentative words replaced with flat nothing. Would Shockwave praise him, as he lay beneath, writhing at his touch? The few victims of his prior attentions claimed he would indeed speak, though to what effect varied from case to case. He would complement some, openly taunt others. He knew exactly what was needed to break them and implemented that knowledge to perfection.

Perhaps he would do the same here, discover Blurr’s darkest desires and use them against him. He would tell him how good a job he was doing, how well trained he’d become. A perfect, pretty little whore. Blurr jerked his servos up his spike roughly, heels digging into the berth to steady himself as his hips thrust upwards into his palm, matching exactly the rhythm of his fingers in his valve. A fourth was trying to squirm its way inside, burning, desperate. He swiped his thumb across his external sensory node and practically wailed. His neighbors would be banging on the wall soon, but he couldn’t help himself.

Shockwave would lean in close, shush him, _quiet, little thing; do you want your Autobot friends to see you like this?_ He didn’t, he really didn’t, but Shockwave would like that, forcing him to ride the edge of danger like that. His engines would roar, maybe, loud mechanics of a war machine, the bio-lights on his shoulders flaring with arousal. His optic, large and bright, would appraise Blurr’s prone form like a data file, information to be learned and mastered, and he would master it, easily. Blurr would lay everything bare before him, wanting.

His hands quickened on his equipment, hardly traceable to the untrained optic. Fluid splashed down across his berth, dripping from his thighs. It had been mere kliks, but he was already soaking, trembling as little flares of electricity crawled across his plating. His spark swirled in his chest, hurting and lusting, engorged with arousal and swollen with hatred.

Shockwave’s voice was deep. He had heard it himself, although only just, echoing down the tunnel behind him. _I know I can’t catch you._ And he hadn’t, not really. He’d hurt Blurr, almost killed him, but he hadn’t even bothered to give chase.

Yet, somehow, even now, he couldn’t help but feel trapped.

“Ohpleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease – Shockwave!”

Blurr’s overload hit him, harder than any he’d had for the past eight lunar cycles, since his recovery, if you could call it that. Burying his fingers inside himself, he screeched, not even attempting to lower his volume, working his spike madly. Transfluid spurted in thin ribbons across his stomach, painting thin silver trails down his side. His valve gushed, even around his servos, liquid heat that managed to spill off the berth onto the flooring. Through it all, even as his circuitry burned white, Shockwave remained striking and dark in his mind.

His movements slowed, then stilled completely, the heaving of his chest as his fans worked the only sign that he was even online. He managed to remove his hands from himself, wiping them dully along the berth pad in a half-sparked attempt to remove some of the spunk.

He came down, hard. Shockwave. Again, Shockwave. The only thing he could see in his fantasies anymore. Even in his dreams. Longarm Prime had been the primary target of his affections for so, so long. It was as if his processor couldn’t discern the difference.

All at once he felt sick. With himself, with what he’d done. With what he knew he would continue to do. The first time he had cum to Shockwave, he had purged. Now, the wave of revulsion that swept over him brought only sorrow. He was weak and wet, disgusting.

Curling into a ball on his side, he stared at the wall, wallowing in his misery because there was little else he could do. No one he could turn to, no amount of coding patches could stifle this itch. Something inside of Blurr was broken, and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

 Shockwave had taken very little with him when he left, but what he had would never be returned.


End file.
